


Whispers in the Night

by AraSigyrn



Category: American Gods - Gaiman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-26
Updated: 2010-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraSigyrn/pseuds/AraSigyrn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shadow met Low Key Lyesmith on his first day in prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers in the Night

Shadow met Low Key Lyesmith on his first day in prison.

He hadn't been sure what to expect of prison. Sitting in the grubby little prison bus, on a vinyl seat held together with duct tape, his first impression was _grey_. Grey sky. Grey walls. Grey faces.

The bus rattled to a halt outside the dour grey walls, barbed wire stark against the clouded sky. They walked the new guys past the lifers – men who'd been here so long that they couldn't remember what life was like outside the prison. Shadow remembered their faces for weeks afterward, dreaming of the grey concrete bleeding into their orange jumpsuits. There was another endless procession of grey as he followed the fat, puffing guard down the corridor.

It was like one of the old black and white films that Laura used to drag him to and he might have gotten used to it in a few days. Instead, he got marched into a cell just as the sun shone through a window and a small, wiry man with pink skin and reddish-blond stubble on his head and cheeks turned to look him over. Ever afterward, Shadow remembers Lyesmith like that; a faded, full colour photo of himself.

The cell door rattled shut behind him and just like that, the sense of being a tourist drained away, leaving Shadow shaking in his skin.

The cell seemed half the size with the door closed. The window dwindled away to a slit of pale light against the darkness and Shadow set down his sheet, blanket and clean boxers. The electric light in the corridor outside flickered and buzzed. The whole weight of all that concrete and steel seemed to be pressing down, squeezing the air out of the cell. Shadow closed his eyes, just for a minute to get his bearings.

There was a clatter and squeak of springs as his new cellmate hopped up to the top bunk. "You're the new one then?"

Shadow saw that as being a rhetorical question.

Lyesmith looked him over. "Not really one for talking, are you? Never mind. It'll be a change from the loudmouths in this wing at least. I'm Lyesmith; some folks call me Low Key. Top bunk's mine: don't shit in the can unless you gotta, don't backtalk the guards and don't do anything too fucking stupid. You got a name? Or should I just call you kid?"

Shadow found himself smiling at the idea of this bantam of man calling anyone 'kid'. "Call me Shadow. Everyone does."

He spent the next week ignoring the many and inventive nicknames Lyesmith came up with, until the grifter finally gave up and called him Shadow like everyone else.

 

The first thing Shadow learnt about Low Key Lyesmith was that he didn't like being ordered around and that he'd fuck you over if you tried to make him do anything.

 

Lyesmith taught Shadow everything worth knowing about prison. He told him about the guards who'd bust a con's ass for the slightest infraction and the ones who just didn't care any more. He kept Shadow out of fights with most of the gangs, got him a good job that kept him busy and, generally, kept him out of trouble.

There was no Hallmark moment or anything but Shadow had it figured about a month in. He and Lyesmith; they weren't quite friends because friends were one of those things you couldn't afford to have in prison. He'd learnt that early on and added 'friends' to the list of things like 'hot baths' and 'soft toilet paper' that only existed on the other side of the prison bars. Lyesmith wasn't a friend, he was a buddy and in prison, your buddy was the nearest thing to family you got.

Of course, this didn't mean Lyesmith was perfect or anything. He wouldn't have been in prison if that was the case. He had a tongue you could sharpen razor blades on. He could carry a grudge until judgment day. Most of all though, he couldn't be still to save his life.

Shadow preferred it when the cell was quiet or still but gradually came to realise that the only way that was going to happen was if Lyesmith stayed the hell out.

Lyesmith was always moving. No matter what he was doing or where he was, Lyesmith was always fidgeting with something or looking around or talking away in that charming, fuzzy accent of his. Even standing in line as the guards poked through the cells looking for contraband, Lyesmith was the guy turning his head to watch, bouncing on his toes.

The guards were used to it and must not have thought him dangerous because they'd just growl "Eyes front, Lyesmith." and keep doing whatever they were doing. Even the most hardened cons would roll their eyes and shake their heads and just let him be. Shadow didn't understand it but figured he didn't need to. It worked and that was the important thing.

 

What Shadow remembers most about Low Key Lyesmith was the stories he told

 

Nights in the cell-block were always the hardest. Lights go out about nine and out here, where there's no people, no life outside the grey walls, the dark creeps in. Shadow's not afraid of the dark, not really, but the dark in prison isn't like the dark beyond. The dark of the real world is more timid, scuttling away from street lights and headlamps and all the modern campfires humans used. Prison dark is primeval and all the more terrifying for it.

Shadow didn't sleep too well in prison. Lyesmith told him not to worry, told him that it took a while to get used it. He didn't seem to sleep at all and Shadow got into the habit of talking to him when the dark was too big to turn his back on.

They talked about sport first but that couldn't last. Shadow'd never been a big one for sport and Lyesmith knew just about enough to bullshit about it. It lasted three nights before Lyesmith changed the subject.

"Take my advice, man. Find something to do with yourself."

"Like?" Shadow was drowsy, the sort of half-awake stage that could stand in for real sleep if you needed it to and was barely paying attention.

Bedsprings bounced and creaked as Lyesmith gestured, unseen, and overhead. "How should I know? Just…I dunno, pick something. Count bricks or make up a family tree or something. _What_ doesn't matter. What matters is that you have something to do so prison doesn't drive you mad. Then I don't have to worry that my cell mate - who's bigger'n me – is going to go crazy and try to kill me."

Shadow laughed a little at the idea. He didn't think prison was going to drive him crazy. Prison was just a place to wait out the days, he wasn't going to be here forever. Still, when he found the book of coin tricks, he stuffed it into his overall and smuggled it back to the cell.

Conversations about prison and coping methods only lasted for the rest of the month and then they hit a kind of dry spell. There are things that cons just don't talk about and other things that you can't talk about except to prove that you're a man. What you got thrown in prison for is one of the latter.

Shadow doesn't like the silence at night. He couldn't have a light switch to chase away the dark so he wanted the sound of Low Key's drawl to keep him anchored in the here and now. He talked about current events for a night but Low Key doesn't reply. Shadow's voice wore out sometime after midnight and he spent the rest of the night staring up at the stained bottom of Low Key's bunk.

It was coming up on winter and the governor won't put the heating on until December so the cell was icy. Shadow watched his breath mist in the air and Lyesmith yawned overhead. The springs squeaked as he rolled over. "I hate to be the one to break it to you, Shadow, but that mayor's been in his own cell for the last week. It's all bullshit, especially here."

They went their separate ways and didn't talk for the rest of the day. That night, Lyesmith started to talk about women.

He started off talking about a partner, 'Fran' "Not her real name but close enough, you know? You'd like her. Every man with a working dick likes our Fran. She's like a supermodel kinda except that she's willing to get in and dirty along with everyone else. Got an ass you could bounce quarters off and a rack that puts Pammie Anderson's to shame."

Shadow, lying in the dark, felt his dick getting heavier and harder against the threadbare prison sheet. Lyesmith kept talking about Fran and her tits and the slippery slick squeeze of her cunt. Shadow drifted off somewhere after that, cock still hard and dreams of Laura and bright sunlight.

The next night, Lyesmith talked about Fran again. This time he started with a story about a barbeque. The description was so vivid; Shadow could almost taste the ribs and smoke. He lay on his stomach, mostly asleep but awake enough to grunt whenever Lyesmith asked if he was still awake.

Then Low Key moved on to the itty-bitty T-shirt Fran was wearing, the way it soaked up her sweat until you could count her freckles through it. He lingered lovingly on the way the damp fabric clung to her nipples and drew them taut.

Shadow's dick started to swell, blood pulsing easily through his veins as he listened to Lyesmith drawl on. His mind painted the scene onto the darkness as his cellmate talked about sneaking behind the patio with Fran, the sun beating down and everyone chatting and gossiping not three feet away.

Low Key's voice was down to a rumble, barely discernable as he remembered the smell of crushed, dry grass and sunscreen. Shadow's erection got a whole lot more urgent as he described the worn out pair of Daisy Dukes pushed down to nearly her knees.

Fran was clinging to the boards of the house when Shadow curled a hand around his dick and started to stroke. The way her cunt clenched and relaxed around Low Key's fingers nearly made him groan and he had to slow his stroke when Lyesmith described the high-pitched whimpers that escape as he finger-fucked her.

Shadow matched his stroke to Lyesmith's voice.

Fran is on her knees at this point, cock in mouth and four fingers knuckle-deep in her own cunt while 'Cousin T' drinks a Bud and talks about the football team. Shadow finally came without much fanfare as Fran is fucked into the ground.

Low Key didn't miss a beat, moving on to talk about the barbeque and the argument over music as if nothing happened. Shadow sank deeper into the mattress and wiped his hand on the shirt he was washing the next day. He fell asleep, listening to Lyesmith imitate the rap music being played by the next door neighbours.

 

They never talked about it; never acknowledged that it happened. By day, they were just two more cons in a sea of grey faces and orange overalls. Low Key was still the man to talk to on the block and Shadow was still counting down the days to his release. Every so often though, about a half hour after lights out, Low Key would settle himself into his thin mattress, making the springs creak and start to talk about girls and fucking. Every time, Shadow would lay there, dick in hand and eyes closed.

Shadow likes to think that he'd have found a way to say thank you if he'd known Lyesmith was going to get transferred but he's grateful that he didn't have to. He just lies in his bunk, alone in the cell, as the lights flicker out and dances the nickel along the back of his hand.

He's got his own parole hearing soon; a chance to walk out those doors and go home to his wife. Laura will never know if he thinks about a man bright with the colours of a faded photograph.

Just this once.


End file.
